


Daughter of Kings

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Hollow Crown (2012), Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Gen, Genderswap, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard II banishes his cousin Bolingbroke, then takes Bolingbroke's nearly-grown children, Mary and John, under his wing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my happy la-la land where history and Shakespeare and THC frolic hand-in-hand through sparkling verdant fields. (Which is to say, I grab whatever I find most appealing from whichever source. I feel this is entirely in the spirit of Shakespeare.)

There were seven of them: Edward, Mary, John, Thomas, Humphrey, Blanche, and Philippa. Edward—then merely the son of the king’s unfavoured cousin—died young, leaving Mary the eldest. It didn’t make much of a difference, of course; John was the heir, and a very proper one too. But for years Mary was the only daughter, born to seal some alliance by her hand and womb.

Even as a child, Mary seemed unlikely to make a very satisfactory wife. She was the most difficult of all the children, a girl with John’s self-assurance and Thomas’ wilful high spirits married to the usual failings of her sex. She was a laughing, merry creature, incapable of any serious thought, or of attending to what anyone said to her. She liked good food and good jokes, lived for dancing and music and bright jewels. Still, she was dutiful enough, and handsome; she would do.

John of Gaunt was alternately entertained and exhausted by his flighty granddaughter; his nephew the king was decidedly fond of her. When King Richard banished Henry Bolingbroke, he kept young John of Lancaster and Lady Mary with him. John grew into a very promising knight of the realm; Mary grew into a very decorative lady of the court.

At thirteen, she was chiefly companion to Richard’s French bride, a child of ten who regarded the king with adoration and nearly everyone else with suspicion. Mary, after one sharp glance, switched from her usual airy prattle to stumbling French. The queen smiled and immediately warmed to her; the other ladies and gentlemen all laughed appreciatively, except for her cousin Edmund Mortimer, the Earl of March. He never did.

Later, Mary played her harp for the king and queen, both of whom enjoyed music, and neither of whom had any facility for it. Some other royal favourites danced around them, laughter ringing from the rafters, and Mary smiled even as her fingers began to burn. She paid close attention to the king and queen, who regarded it all with approval (but Isabella seemed tired, she should drop a word in someone’s ear, and hadn’t Richard’s eyes narrowed a little at Lord Worcester?). Northumberland, Mary thought, seemed irritable, as usual, and his son—was he here? Ah, yes, dancing with Mortimer’s sister, though both he and Lady Catherine looked as if they’d rather be sparring.

(Mary had good reason to know that Kate Mortimer was a very fair hand with a wooden sword. She wouldn’t put it past her to try a real one.)

Mortimer himself looked on unsmilingly—also as usual. She didn’t think he disapproved of Kate and Harry Percy; he and Percy were friendly, as far as she knew, and a connection to the Percys must be satisfactory. Even the heir to the king could not aim much higher: not, at least—she glanced at Isabella—when that heir would soon be supplanted. No, it was just his usual severity. Even John was lighthearted next to him.

Mary kept playing, and not for the first time, thought that Mortimer might be a problem.

* * *

Mary would never have dreamed of encouraging any of her suitors without at least the tacit approval of the king. As it was, Richard had promised her a dowry appropriate for a lady of royal blood when it came time for her to marry, but smilingly added that he hoped that day would not come too quickly. Mary could not help but assume a deeper motive than pleasure in her company, though she did not doubt that he valued it. Richard was many things, but insincere was not one of them.

Not - not exactly. Briefly, her brow furrowed. She was, truly, very fond of the king; when he first brought her into his household, he had told her that he hoped she would feel herself at liberty to regard him as a father, now that she could no longer depend on her own. In fact, Richard had been a kinder and more careful father to her than the banished Bolingbroke had ever been. She would have liked to think him everything a king, a King of England, should be.

Yet, as she listened carefully to the rumours swirling around court, she knew it was not so. Many of his nobles seemed increasingly disaffected with his policies and his judgment; they particularly resented his greater preoccupation with Ireland than England. The burghers and common folk were restless. Some even believed, or pretended to believe, that the poor harvests and pestilences had a deeper meaning: that God had withdrawn his favour from the king.

For a moment, Mary’s lips tightened, and she had to force them back into a smile. Impossible. Richard, whatever his failings of policy, was God’s anointed. No act of man could change that.

Yet she could not be easy; she worried about what she heard, schooling her features into an expression of innocent merriment. Nobody attended much to a young lady at a harp, even if that lady had bright Plantagenet hair and spent her leisure hours arm-in-arm with the queen. She did not know exactly what she feared; surely, not even the most intransigent nobleman in the kingdom would dare lay hands on the king? Yet this degree of dissatisfaction could not simply persist harmlessly. If Richard did not take care, his lords might well commit themselves to some drastic decision. And when was Richard ever careful?

She thought he was planning something. She thought, even, that it had something to do with his odd disinclination to see her married. She was, to be sure, a hostage dependent on his charity, but she was nevertheless a lady with the king’s blood and the king’s favour. She could expect a great alliance, and surely he could only benefit by arranging one? He could not be so fond of her as all that. Even were she to marry, she would remain at court, and continue to wait upon the queen.

Was it her dowry? She would have suspected so, in any other case. Richard, for all his extravagance, could be very tightfisted in other ways. Yet it was Richard himself who had promised her a fortune; whatever he gave her would be entirely at his own discretion. She had none of her own; he had already taken command of her father’s private wealth.

Her grandfather, perhaps, would make trouble over a slight to her consequence, but she found it difficult to imagine. The Duke of Lancaster had aged quickly in the time since his son’s banishment, growing tired and frail - ha, gaunt. Yet, even were he in perfect health, he must have rather greater concerns than the particulars of his nephew’s generosity to his granddaughter.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t help feeling that he was, in some way, critical to all this. _What have you done?_ she thought at her grandfather, and feared that he had done nothing at all.

Meanwhile, her cousin Mortimer grew more inconvenient with each day at passed. Others regarded her as a bright, amusing ornament, as she intended they should, or as a hand on her harp. Mortimer did nothing of the sort. His humourless stares seemed to have turned actively suspicious, now, though he kept his distance. In fact, he spoke to her less than ever before. If not for the proof of her own memories, she would not have known him for the devoted playmate of her childhood, tagging faithfully behind Mary and her brothers.

After several weeks of simmering beneath her smile, Mary was tempted to (sweetly, jestingly) refuse when he begged the pleasure of her company. Did he mean to confront her? She had done nothing for which she need account. She merely sang for the benefit of people she secretly despised, exclaimed over jewels when she was really deciding how to turn court gossip to her advantage, laughed when she was angry, listened to whispers not meant for her ears. She was far too careful to dare anything more.

Except for a few trivial civilities, Mortimer was silent at first. Mary, after a moment’s consideration, decided the risk of offending him was an acceptable one, and did not take the trouble of talking herself.

Once they reached the gardens, he said abruptly, “My sister is to marry the Earl of Northumberland’s son.”

“Kate - and Hotspur Percy?” said Mary. “Well, I cannot say I am surprised. I wish her joy.”

“As do I,” Mortimer said, even more somber than usual. “Percy is an excellent fellow; a bit rash, but he has a good understanding, a warm heart, and a very proper sense of honour.”

Mary smiled. “I am sure I do not know a man who prizes his honour more than Harry Percy.”

“I am not sure such a man exists,” said Mortimer. “He is very well-suited to her, I think, and she will likely be a steadying influence on him. I am very well pleased.”

Mary very much doubted that he had sought a private audience - however acceptable, when they were such near kin - in order to inform her of his pleasure in his sister’s marriage. What did he want? She studied him with wide, vacant eyes.

“I am sure that all our kindred must share your sentiments,” she said.

“Oh! Yes, the King has granted his blessing,” said Mortimer. He glanced at her, and then away. “I would not, of course, presume to accept or offer any suit without it.”

“No, of course not.”

None of the resentful murmurs, as far as Mary knew, had come from _him_ ; after all, what complaints could he have, when he stood so high in the king’s favour? The man who would be father to his sister, however -

“You hear a great deal, cousin,” said Mortimer.

Mary snapped out of her abstraction.

“I beg your pardon?”

Mortimer finally smiled. “Lady Mary, you are the darling of the court. Everyone speaks to you, and when they do not, they speak near you. There can be nothing worth knowing that you have not heard.”

“You flatter me, Lord March, but -”

“You need not play the fool for me, Mary.”

Mary stared at him. “I am sure I have no idea what you mean.”

He exhaled through his teeth - clenched teeth, she was perversely pleased to notice. She slipped her hand off his arm and strolled a short distance away, admiring some nearby yellow roses.

“I am not like you,” said Mortimer, finally. “I have no skill at word-jousts, or any of these court games: pretending to be someone different than I am. I say what I mean, or I say nothing. And I say to you now: I _know_ that you are dissembling, for some imperceptible purpose of your own. I have been familiar with you for most of your life; I know you are far too clever to be what you seem. You need not bother performing to me.”

Mary laughed, not even trying to inject any real humour in it. “Well, this is a strange thing by way of a compliment. You admire my wit even as you accuse me of artifice and duplicity! Did you fear I might complain that your speech was too polished? I assure you, you have done away with all danger of that. If insulting my honour was your only intention in speaking to me, then - ”

“I was not trying to praise you,” he said, his sigh more long-suffering than exasperated. Mary’s eyes narrowed. “I am a simple man; you would not doubt it if I had. I simply wish - I must know if there is any reason … anything you have heard, which might trouble my joy in this match. I have a duty to my sister as your brother of Lancaster has to you.”

Mary considered the rose. “You said I was clever: for a lady, you must mean, for I have but a woman’s feeble understanding. All this talk of Ireland and crops and Bibles and our poor late great-uncle is far too much for me. Whatever you choose to think of me, I really do not attend to matters so above my comprehension. If you wish for advice, you must look to stronger minds and stronger constitutions than mine. I see no great cause to fear for Lady Catherine’s safety, or to doubt her happiness in her marriage. For myself, I wish her very happy.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then, in a constrained voice, Mortimer said, “Thank you.”

Mary gave a small cry. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I think I have pricked my finger.”


	2. Chapter 2

Mary was in the garden, attending on Queen Isabella, when she caught sight of a dark-haired, half-familiar figure approaching--Mortimer? But no. This man was slimmer and younger. Almost a boy, she thought, and with that, she knew him.

For a moment, she almost forgot herself--forgot the queen, and called out to him. Instead, she waited, her practiced smile turning hesitant as he started, then drew nearer.

Isabella looked bewildered. “Who would trouble us here? I said I did not wish for company--I said it properly, didn’t I, Mary?”

Mary was reminded anew that Isabella, though only slightly younger than herself, was little more than a child. She doubted whether Richard had even taken her to his bed yet.

“You did. This--” the young man bowed to the queen, and then, more easily, to Mary-- “is my eldest brother, Lord John of Lancaster.” The strange, tentative smile trembled on her lips.

“Your Majesty,” he said, kissing Isabella’s hand, and only clasped Mary’s. “Sister.”

“John, what do you here?”

“The king summoned me from Kent,” John said. Then he paused. “Had he not, however, I would have begged his leave. I am a dilatory correspondent, I know, but I hope attentive enough to be present at your betrothal.”

Mary bit back the first half-dozen responses that sprang to her tongue; it was like Mortimer all over again. “My betrothal,” she repeated.

“Oh!” Isabella cried, her round face flushing with pleasure. “Did Lord March offer for you at last?”

“Lord March.” For quite the first time in her life, Mary’s mind felt dull, dimwitted. “Mortimer?”

“His Majesty did not mention his choice of alliance in the letter,” said John, and even through the cloud of shock and John’s ridiculous style, she heard the warning. _This is Richard’s doing, and you stand beside his wife._ “I will admit, however, that I did form the impression that he referred to our cousin.”

“I see. It is very kind of the king--” she forced the words out, warmly, gratefully--“to have taken the trouble of arranging so great a marriage for me.” Then she laughed. “Oh! Of course you are needed, for more than ceremony. Mortimer must ask you for my hand, little brother.” She paused, thinking back to that strange conversation with her c--her future husband? _Oh! Yes, the King has granted his blessing. I would not, of course, presume to accept or offer any suit without it._ “I suppose he has spoken to King Richard already.”

“Indeed. My only surprise,” John went on, carefully, “was that I did not hear of the matter first from you.”

“I did not know of it before this moment,” she replied.

John nodded without surprise; likely he had already guessed. He was clever, and it would not have taken any leaps of genius; she sent very thorough letters. Perhaps that was why he had sought her out so soon after his arrival; his dark hair (the exact shade of Mortimer’s) was still damp. He must have just changed out of his travelling clothes. Mary’s brilliant smile softened. John had never been a warm boy, any more than she had been a warm girl, but he was fond of her in his way. She did not imagine he would see her married entirely against her will.

Of course, if the king wished it, there could be no refusal. Still, she would have liked to speak openly with her brother. There had always been a natural, easy understanding between them; his mind was nearer hers than any other among their kin, and he alone understood her situation. Others called them _my lord and lady of Lancaster_ and _blood of the king_ and _honoured guests_ , but in the end it amounted to hostages for their father’s good behaviour.

She wondered how long her father, haughty and self-willed as he was, would knuckle under the unspoken threat to her and John. Not long, she thought uneasily; after all, he had other sons. Thomas and Humphrey were safe at his side, and he even had other daughters, if Philippa and Blanche still lived. Mary rather hoped so, but nevertheless--perhaps it would be better, to be safely married, and to a man she knew to be kind, whatever his other faults. She would like to know John’s opinion. He had his own way of seeing things.

Mary smiled at the queen, and heartily wished her to the devil.

Thankfully, Isabella was summoned to the king’s side not long afterwards, and she graciously allowed Mary to remain in the garden with her brother. It was strange; they had written to each other so frequently that she knew him very well, but he looked very much the stranger--tall, severe, almost a man. She had not thought to lose him quite so fast.

It was John who broke the silence. “You truly did not know?”

Mary shook her head. “It is as I told you before the queen. He took me aside a few weeks ago, but only to ask my opinion of his sister’s marriage to Harry Percy--and of some discontent at court.” Her mouth twisted. “Perhaps he only wished to assure himself that he would not be married to a traitor, or a reason to excuse himself from the match. It must be the king’s doing; Mortimer does not breathe without his permission.”

“None do, I suppose,” John said carefully. “From everything I have heard, our cousin is a particularly . . . exacting lord, in his fashion.”

“That is the nature of kings,” said Mary, meaning to be calm, but she heard the strained note in her voice. She cleared her throat. “King Richard, is, however, very--” _kind_ did not seem quite the right word -- “amiable. I believe he has given me my way far more than my father would have, or my grandfather.”

“I can easily believe that,” said John, something that might have been humour glimmering in his dark eyes. He looked so much like his namesake, she thought idly, and would only grow more like as he became a man.

Mary caught her breath.

“What is it?”

“The king,” she said slowly, “has been very clear that he does not wish for me to marry. He says it is because the queen could not do without my company--nonsense, of course. If he wishes me to remain at court, no subject of his would gainsay him. I suppose it might be the dowry, but that is entirely at his own discretion.”

John listened, his expression thoughtful. “This must be very sudden, then,” he said.

“Extremely,” said Mary. She walked back and forth, rubbing her hands together, while John--always more sedate--frowned down at his boots. “I have thought, too, that my grandfather must be concerned in some way. The men at court often speak of him. Is he so very ill?”

“Yes,” said John somberly. “I saw him only a fortnight past, and he had taken a great turn for the worse. I do not expect he shall live out the month. Mary, do you think--”

She only walked faster, fingers tapping against her bodice. “It must be.”

“When the Duke of Lancaster dies,” John said, “his lands and titles will return to my lord father, and _he_ will return home. The king must wish you formally betrothed before he reaches England--before he even receives the news. What I do not understand, though, is--”

Mary’s thoughts had already raced ahead. “Why?”

John nodded.

“Mortimer is the king’s heir, as long as he has no children by the queen,” said Mary. “He does not merely wish me to marry, but to marry _Mortimer._ It is a great marriage, to be sure, but--”

John looked very seriously at her. “If Queen Isabella bears him no sons,” he said, “you will be Queen of England, sister.”

She laughed. “Nonsense! Of course there will be sons.”

“There is as much royal blood in our veins as Mortimer’s,” John persisted, “and _our_ name is Plantagenet, not his. Some might question his claim--”

“Question the King?”

“Have you not told me that they already question the king?”

Mary stared down at the yellow roses in front of her. Yes, that much she had heard. No one had yet--no one _would_ presume to defy him. But they questioned, they doubted, they whispered among themselves. She’d written of it between the lines, and of course John--dear, clever, unrelenting John--had understood. But it was one thing to privately doubt the wisdom of the king’s actions. It was another to reject the one he had chosen to succeed him--even supposing Isabella was barren, which she reminded herself, must be very, very unlikely.

_Queen of England._

Mary swallowed. Richard was in the prime of his life; barring illness or mischance, it would be many years before any heir came to the throne. She must not think of it; she must be Countess of March, and grateful for that. But--

“If they question the legitimacy of _his_ claim, then they must turn to--”

“--my father!” John concluded. They stared at each other. “It may be a different matter if Mortimer is married to you, however. Any child of yours and his will be doubly royal. My father may be inclined to forget his grievances, if he is to be grandfather to a king. That must be the explanation.”

Mary’s thoughts seemed to be spinning in five different directions. Firmly, she pulled them back under control. “But that will be nothing more than a possibility and a slight one--it rests on a dozen weak chances. Yet I cannot think he chose me for Mortimer’s wife for any other reason. Does it mean for a reassurance that the succession is secure, whether Isabella bears a son or not? That does not explain why my grandfather’s illness should bring it to his mind, however--”

John caught his breath.

“What is it?”

“I am wondering,” he said, “what would happen if, after my grandfather dies, the king did _not_ end my father’s banishment?”

“Impossible,” said Mary. “The duke’s titles, his estates--how would my father take command of them from exile? He would not stand for it. Nor would the king’s nobles. If he did not honour his word to the greatest lord in the land, his own uncle, how could he be trusted to honour his word to any lesser lord? to his people? It would be--” too great a risk, she thought -- “disgraceful.”

John looked at her, his eyes as troubled as hers must be.

“I hope to God that the king has your good sense, Mary.”

* * *

Mortimer did not seem to understand why John had returned so precipitately to court. It took him three days more to propose marriage, during which Mary’s entire face ached, her laughter even merrier and more insincere than usual. John was very grave, very deferential to the king, very reserved; Mary alone, she hoped, could see the anxiety in his face when he looked at her.

There was a strange kindness to it. Mary’s welfare must rank very low with those to whom she would otherwise look for protection: the Duke of Lancaster, who was weighed down with sorrow and old age and fear even before his health crumbled; her father, who was banished and dishonoured; and the king, who was the king. But it was not so with her brother, too young to be burdened with greater matters, too clever not to see that something beyond a very proper marriage was being arranged here. He, too, was a hostage, and he knew better than anyone how narrow and dangerous a road they walked.

He was anxious, he admitted to her, and though Mary couldn’t say the words, even to John, even when he had admitted to his own fears, there was a certain relief to hearing them. She heard a great deal, and guessed at more, but none of it came in confidence; it came because she was a silly, flighty thing, easily disregarded even as Richard’s fractious lords whispered under cover of her harp. John, though, attended to every word she spoke or wrote, instantly grasped her stated and unstated meaning, poured out his troubles between the lines of his own correspondence, told her frankly and simply, _I am afraid._ She felt as if he were speaking for both of them, in an odd way, that in that one moment, she could admit to herself that she was frightened, and confused and tired and fourteen.

Mary didn’t smile: not for John. She did, however, take his hands in hers.

“The Lord,” she began, faltering a little; then her voice firmed. “The Lord will preserve us, as long as we remain innocent from wrongdoing, and faithful.”

“May it be so,” said John, expression determined and tone uncertain. He sounded young, so much younger than she was, for all that less than year lay between them. Mary couldn’t resist the impulse to lean over to kiss his cheek.

“I am glad you are here, John.”

The king, for his part, received the news--if news it could be called--with very evident pleasure. He beamed at them both, somehow managing to imbue even that gesture with a regal air, and wished them joy thrice. A few weeks later, after the betrothal had been properly formalized, he delightedly announced it to the entire court, referring to both Mary and Mortimer as _our beloved cousins_. It all seemed quite sincerely felt and, somehow, unreal.

“We well know that you have long awaited this day,” he told Mortimer, as if _Richard_ were not the architect of the entire arrangement.

“I, well, I--” Mortimer looked helplessly at Mary, clearly expecting her to smooth over his floundering. But of course: he would be her husband, and even in small matters such as this, his credit was hers. And it was not so small, when the king was concerned.

“Oh, is _that_ why you always used to pull my braids?” she asked, smiling up at her cousin--betrothed. “It explains so much.”

Mortimer turned bright red. The king, however, only laughed, and began to speak of preparations for the wedding. It was immediately clear that he meant it to be a very grand, almost royal, occasion, to the surprise of both his cousins. Mortimer just seemed bewildered, but Mary felt instantly uneasy. It was all so extravagant-- _too_ extravagant, if nothing to Richard’s other expenses. What was Richard planning?

It was only a few days later that a servant came banging at the door to the room where Mary sat embroidering with the queen and other ladies. He bowed quickly to Isabella.

“Your Majesty, the Lord John begs his sister’s company--’tis most urgent, he told me to say, and he will be gone within the hour.”

“How peculiar!” said Isabella. “Very well, cousin: but you must tell me everything when you return.”

Mary assented and hurried after the servant, full of dread without knowing what she dreaded. Her brother, already dressed for travel, was waiting in the gardens. She could instantly see the strain in his face. Strain, and--grief?

“John? What is it?” she asked, hardly waiting for the servant to withdraw.

“The Duke of Lancaster is dying. He has begged the King to attend him in his last hours. I am to accompany his Majesty, and I believe Mortimer, as well.”

Mary sat down a nearby bench. “Oh! I - it is quite certain? He has had other spells--”

“Quite certain. We can only hope that we reach Ely House before he dies.”

“I am very sorry,” she replied, hardly knowing what she said. She shook her head, forcing herself to think. “You must provide him any comfort you can. I shall pray for his soul. Our uncle of Exeter, is he--”

“I do not know.”

Mary nodded. “When will you return?”

He glanced away, his gloom seeming to grow heavier. “I cannot say. Afterwards, we are to sail to Ireland.”

Mary felt uncommonly slow. “ _Ireland!_ Whatever reason could he have for--” Her eyes went wide.

“He means to prosecute a war there,” John said, his usual stately manner stiff. “I heard him say that he was determined to crush out all rebellion and . . . I hardly know, sister, but he wishes for me to accompany him.”

That, at least, was a good sign, but-- “I do not understand.” She sprang to her feet, furious with herself. She had prided herself on her cleverness in ordinary life, but now, when she _needed_ to be clever, her mind seemed dull and sluggish. “How is he to pay for it? If he raises taxes further-- no, I cannot think Parliament will permit it. And they would be wise to refuse! With the last few harvests so poor . . .”

“He is courting open rebellion,” said John.


End file.
